


Disconnected Answers

by albawrites



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Romance, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albawrites/pseuds/albawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompts given stories in various shapes and sizes with no real connection in sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnected Answers

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are owned by the author, simply written for amusement and the fact that the Scavengers don't receive nearly enough attention as they ought to and it seemed like a good idea to work on a series of small stories for people who were interested in having ideas filled out.

**REQUEST:** "RATCHETDRIGFT" were the exact words, so here's what happened.

**But Wonderful**  
 _Ratchet isn’t always good at expressing himself sincerely, then sometimes…_

 

The medbay is not a place for fooling around. It’s also not a place for bickering or arguments, it is certainly no location for Drift to be hanging mirrors in an attempt to “reflect the bad karma out from the medbay”, and it is definitely not a safe haven in which he lets the swordsmech get some naps in between work.

Not that Ratchet is as strict as Ultra Magnus. So few are.

He checks in on Drift on occasion, making sure that he isn’t bothered by anyone else or that he isn’t bothering anyone. Being third in command and working for Rodimus definitely doesn’t mean he’s out of things to do, and Drift always pushes himself. Always! So, a bad habit formed and he’s been letting the kid catch some sleep here and there, undisturbed.

It’s time, though.

With a forced grumble, he nudges Drift awake, gives half an effort to arguing with him, and finally gets him to the door.

“And I expect you back here for an actual medical exam. You’re overdue,” Ratchet gripes. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” Drift peers at him.

Sharply, Ratchet swats his rear. “Don’t you argue with me.”

“ _Ack!_ Okay, okay. Sheesh!” Drift whirls around to protect his aft. “When did you get so feisty?”

“Just hurry up already. I’m not keen on being left waiting.”

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "Drift and Fulcrum - The List"

**The List**  
 _Fulcrum and Drift have something in common._

 

Guilt drives him, and it probably always has. Drift has a lot of deaths to pay back for, going all the way back before the war with Gasket, and it goes onto the present now, as he regrets everything that happened on the _Lost Light._

So ultimately, he left, to find a new way to atone.

Along the way, he’d wandered Clemency and found the K-Con, all limbs and smiling nervously. Despite all that he’s heard about the K-Class, Fulcrum in no way feels like a threat at all.

They end up having to run, and they still run. Whether because it’s Drift or Fulcrum, Tarn made it very clear that he intends to enact justice upon them.

“By whose definition,” Fulcrum mutters, huddled up behind Drift as the swordsmech pilots his humbly sized shuttle.

“I can’t help but ask,” Drift muses faintly, “but what did someone like you do to even get on the List?”

There’s a small huff from the K-Con’s vents. “Does it matter?”

“Suppose it doesn’t. But I think it’d be good to know what we’re both running from.”

“Well. Guess I’m just used to running,” Fulcrum mutters, curling up in his spot.

Drift smiles a bit sadly. “That makes two of us.”

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "Ultra Magnus, chess"

**Multiplayer**  
 _Ultra Magnus has an ongoing game._

 

Over the course of many years, he’s played. One piece at a time, the board has changed from the perfect order that it was. It itches to change, but it always has.

One move at a time, he’s seen the war escalate. Black and white no longer in a straight order, but now meshing together in utter chaos. It’s disheartening, but not unfamiliar.

Every day, he moves a piece, and Ultra Magnus watches how things mesh. It’s been him, only him, moving the pieces.

He’s used to it.

It’s easier to make decisions on his own, after all.

Chess isn’t meant to be a singleplayer game, but he’s used to moving the pieces by himself.

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "a sad thing where fulcrum jumps off the worldsweeper and doesn't survive or maybe he just breaks a leg or something and gets doted on by the other scavengers"

**Crater Side**  
 _It just blows up in Fulcrum’s face._

 

When he lands, he’s in pieces, barely holding together. He can’t move, he can’t lift his head. It feels like everything is falling out, and he’s wasting away. The jump did it, the jump held them back, and the D.J.D. are gone, but now he’s in this crater of himself, dying.

Spinister, Crankcase, and Misfire stare down.

“Not worth the scrap,” Spinister points out. “And it’s going to take too much to put him back together.”

Crankcase shrugs. “Eh. Just leave him.”

“Even his fuel pump is broken!” Misfire sighs, disappointed. “What a shame.”

Fulcrum tries to beg and plead for them to help, but they don’t.

They walk away.

Fulcrum’s optics brighten sharply and he sits up in his berth, vents cycling hard and his body trembling. “Wh—?”

“Down,” Spinister informs him, like he’s talking to a very simple-minded mech. The irony almost hurts, but Fulcrum is busy being gently pushed back down by the medic. “Bad dream?”

“I. I guess so. What happened to…” Fulcrum peers down at himself. “Uh, I. I seem to be missing my right leg…?”

“Yep. Took it off. After that fall you had, it was easier to just take it off to repair. I don’t have anything to take off the pain, so if I repaired you while it was still on, it’d just hurt and then you’d scream tons.” Spinister pats his shoulder. “You just worry about resting up.”

There’s a small sigh and Fulcrum tries to relax on the berth, still winding down from the dream. He peers down warily at his lack of leg, but he’s quickly distracted by a familiar snout shoving itself at his shoulder. With a fond smile, he pats Grimlock’s nose affectionately.

This crew has a strange way of handling things. Most of the time, it’s a punishment to be in the medbay for Decepticons, but instead, he’s practically coddled. With some hemming and hawing, Crankcase leaves behind some extra fuel rations. After some scoffing and an extra _bah!_ , the mechanic leaves. Not that Fulcrum is ever really left alone, not when Spinister is there working and Misfire stops by flits around, being both annoying but also making sure that Fulcrum is at least physically comfortable.

_Comforting_ is not how Fulcrum would have expected to describe anyone but that’s quickly proven otherwise by these people. It doesn’t hurt, either, that Krok stops by to distract him with some war stories.

Hell of a ridiculous crew, but Fulcrum’s glad he was found.

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "MISFIRE X FULCRUM LOVINS"

**Limits**  
 _Misfire wants to test something. **NSFW, sticky sex**_

 

He cannot believe he let himself be talked into this current situation.

From head to toe, Fulcrum’s entire body tingles. He can’t stop himself from twitching, everything hypersensitive and heated. After being so worked up and left on the edge, it almost hurts like this. Shaking, he peers down at himself, looking between his legs.

His spike is completely pressurized and erect, throbbing and ready to overload. The problem, being, that there’s some kind of strap around the base of his member, preventing the charge from completing. Perpetually now, he’s stuck on the brink of finishing, being physically unable to.

A strangled whimper escapes him as he feels Misfire rub his index finger over the tip of his spike. “Y’gonna say please yet?” he asks with a broad smile.

“ _Misfire_ ,” Fulcrum grates out, squirming under him. Frag! He can feel more lubricant working up inside of his valve. “N-no. No, I’m fine. Can you see how fine I am? Totally fine— _ah!_ ”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Misfire muses, tweaking the head. “This guy is telling me a whole different story. Looking a little strained and all.” He rolls his thumb over the slit, Fulcrum crying out under him. “Why, it looks like he’s having a hard time of it!”

Stubbornly, Fulcrum bites his lower lip, swearing he won’t plead yet. Not yet. Pleased, Misfire grins and shoves his hands down to Fulcrum’s hips, pinning him down as he leans in close. “Well, if you insist, pinhead.” Without another word, Fulcrum watches the jet wrap his lips around the end of his spike, sucking hard and working his way down eagerly.

The way Misfire’s tongue works on him is ridiculously good. Maybe because he’s still worked up and ready to go off, but no doubt due to Misfire’s habitual need to sample so many things. He can hear him slurp away, sucking and seeing him bob his head. Fulcrum wants to just buck forward thoughtlessly, but with Misfire holding him down like this, he has no where to go.

It’s utter torture.

“Okay!” Fulcrum moans. “Okay okay _please!_ Please, let me overload!”

There’s a muffled laugh against the K-Con as Misfire snaps off the band around the base of the spike. With a wail, Fulcrum finishes hard, whimpering as he feels the swallow of Misfire’s throat around him.

Satisfied, Misfire backs his head up, grinning down at him. “Knew you had your limits. Want to have another go?”

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "Krok/Fulcrum drabble wherein Krok really likes being called _sir_ "

**Orders are Orders**  
 _Krok can deal with being in charge._

 

Granted, Fulcrum hasn’t been on the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ for very long, and he’s known the crew for a short time, but he is quite fond of them. Still, he’d be quick to say that Krok is definitely the most sane of the bunch who pretty clearly has it together. You know, despite his missing squad and believing that they’ll meet up somehow at some point.

_That_ all aside, he does admire how Krok works. He’s a soldier through and through, but he’s smart and patient as hell. You have to be when Misfire tries to glue shards of glass to Crankcase’s aft because wouldn’t it be funny if Spinister freaked out? Seriously, every few hours, it’s like Krok has to herd his group of endearing idiots to the next thing without anyone getting hurt. It’s impressive.

So that is his excuse for how things have turned out, anyway. Krok’s a hard worker, and it’s hard to not admire him. In turn, and he really doesn’t know how, Krok’s approached him about, uh. Relieving stress.

Right, that’s what they’ll call it.

They haven’t had time yet, and it’s a little hard to ignore, but since their chat, there’s been more than just Krok’s personality to admire. And it’s been a really long time since Fulcrum’s let off some stress.

Like, really long. Years long. Ouch.

“How’s the inventory look on the fuel pumps?” Krok asks.

“You know, Misfire might be better to ask,” Fulcrum mutters, touching his own midsection at the rough welding spot he’d been left with.

A hand presses to Fulcrum’s abdomen, over what’s essentially a scar for them. “That’s staying where it is,” Krok informs him with a hint of sternness but, in a way, reassuring. No one is snagging any of Fulcrum’s organs.

The K-Con glances down, then smiles wryly. “Sir, yes sir. Nice of you to make sure of that.”

The reaction’s not really what he anticipates. Krok’s optics almost flicker for a moment, then the gives a gruff hum of acknowledgement before withdrawing his hand.

…Hm. Okay.

“Anyway.” Fulcrum considers for a moment. No, he doesn’t see the harm; he bends over at the waist in order to sort through the bin, giving off an air of indifference. “I counted fifteen.” He pauses, then adds, “Sir.”

There’s a little clicking noise of Krok’s plating twitching.

Oh. _That_ is interesting.

“Stand up,” Krok grunts.

Obeying, Fulcrum gets back up and turns around, glancing at his commanding officer. “Sir,” he addresses again.

There’s a steady, fierce glow in Krok’s optics, and he’s grabbing Fulcrum by the hips. “It’s occurred to me that you’re going to be very busy for the next hour at least.”

Heh, this is definitely going to be interesting to exploit later. Trying hard to not be smug, Fulcrum leans in to mutter into Krok’s auditory sensor, “Whatever you say, _sir_.”

Fulcrum squeaks when he’s abruptly shoved onto his back, Krok’s engine growling with interest.

 

-=-=-

 

**REQUEST:** "spin invades someone's personal space on the pretext of _oh god anxiety the world is going to kill us all_ "

**World’s End**  
 _Spinister has a moment. Good thing Krok has perpetual patience._

 

It’s not really a gradual build up or anything of the like. When there’s an unfamiliar noise in the ship? Better shoot it. Often it’s why someone has to help Spinister organize anything in the medbay and make sure it’s been securely placed. If something drops from the bench, the medic is just prone to shooting at the sound, not trusting it. Primus forbid if the light flickers.

So when the engine hiccups and the ship trembles, Spinister didn’t even know where to begin. Should he shoot the walls, the floor, or maybe that spot in the ceiling he’s already shot at? This was bad! This was intensely bad! What was he supposed to do?

When at a loss, his leader knows; that’s what he can count on. As the lights flicker, Spinister barrels his way through the hallway before bursting into Krok’s office.

“Krok, we’re gonna die,” Spinister says matter-of-factly. His tone isn’t panicked, but just completely accepting that the ship is very likely to explode and they sure won’t survive that!

“Spinister—” Krok starts, but not another word is uttered before his space is completely invaded by one very paranoid, violent, probably crazed surgeon.

“It made a funny sound, and I couldn’t figure out where to go,” Spinister tells him, grabbing Krok by the shoulders and leaning in close. “Or where to shoot.”

There’s a slow, even sigh from Krok before he reaches up to pry off the grip on his shoulders. “Spinister,” he starts very patiently, “do you want to sit down with me?”

There’s a pause as Spinister considers that, optics darting around for a moment. “Uh. All right.”

Carefully, Krok guides the medic to sit onto the edge of his recharge slab. He raises his hand, very lightly rubbing his thumb over Spinister’s chevron. It earns a confused hum from the larger Decepticon’s engine until he quickly finds himself relaxing.

Gradually, Spinister’s head decides the best place to rest is right on Krok’s shoulder.

” _Uh, sorry about that. Crankcase and I are working on the engine_ ,” Fulcrum offers through the commlink. “ _I heard Spin shout. Is anything more shot than usual?_ ”

“Got it figured out. Just get it repaired,” Krok mutters in response.

The ship did not, in fact, ever explode. The thought deteriorated and died in Spinister’s mind the more that Krok’s fingers continued to work away at his helm and chevron, giving him pleasant attention. In fact, perhaps, his engine purred in approval.


End file.
